


ic feor heonan elþeodigra eard gesece

by izzybeth



Series: mæg ic be me sylfum soðgied wrecan [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Athelwynne, F/M, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Women Being Awesome, brief very nearly non-con but not quite, dubious anglo-saxon, egregious latin, fucking around with history, fucking around with norse mythology, girl!Athelstan, lagertha is a goddamn queen, ragnar is a grade A number one asshole, rescuing gyda from the smoking wreckage of s1, the author is an atheist just fyi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:05:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybeth/pseuds/izzybeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelwynne has never had to be afraid before, but now she knows there are plenty of things in the world to fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ic feor heonan elþeodigra eard gesece

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nokomis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nokomis/gifts).



> Thanks to C. and S. for being awesome betas and saving me from hungry bears and silly mistakes. Title taken from lines 37b-38b of The Seafarer, an Anglo-Saxon poem: _I, far from here, a foreign people's homeland seek_

Athelwynne has never seen a man in her life, aside from the occasional brother from the monastery across the island, but the way these Northmen look at her and her sisters, she knows she is afraid. She is afraid for herself, afraid for Sister Eadgyth and Sister Sigeburh. She is afraid of the future, something she's never had to think about before. In Lindisfarne, her life had consisted of reciting daily the liturgy of the hours, copying and illuminating the word of God, spinning, weaving, eating, and sleeping, all in the company of her family of sisters. It had been that way since she was very young. Nothing could reach them, safe in the abbey on the island, and they had no reason to reach out to the rest of the world.

Until the rough, dirty hands of these heathen Northmen forced their way into the nuns' sanctuary, murdered countless of Athelwynne's sisters, and carried all the Lord's treasure back to their boat shaped like a monster.

It's such a small boat to be carrying so many people and all the heavy gold. Athelwynne is afraid of many things; specifically of being tossed overboard, or dying of thirst or exposure before reaching the lands of these tall, violent men.

Athelwynne has never had to be afraid before, but now she knows there are plenty of things in the world to fear.

Including the man with the ice blue eyes, Ragnar Lothbrok. Who had not killed her when he found her, who had been amazed when she had pleaded for her life in his tongue, who had asked her why the book was precious, and who had pretended not to notice when she shoved the gospel into her tunic while being herded to the beach. Athelwynne hugs the book tighter to her chest and looks about her furtively. She catches the man's eye without intending to, and he grins at her with all his teeth. She ducks under her hood. She does not want to see that wolf's grin again.

The men barely touch the sisters while traveling the open sea, but now they are sailing up a river, rocky cliffs looming high on either side, and Athelwynne cowers in her cloak as the Northmen get more and more boisterous, shouting and grinning and staring hungrily at the women. She wants none of their attention, but she has no choice.

"Ragnar Lothbrok?"

He looks up at Athelwynne's voice. "What?"

"I think Sister Wulfrun is dead."

Ragnar Lothbrok saunters over to Athelwynne, smirking. He prods Sister Wulfrun's head, which lolls heavily on Athelwynne's shoulder. "So she is." He gestures to another man, and together they heave poor Sister Wulfrun's body over the side of the boat. "A lighter load now, eh?" Ragnar Lothbrok winks at Athelwynne. She wants to cry at the loss of her sister, or maybe vomit at the callous behavior of the Northmen. Instead she crosses herself with bound hands, and begins a prayer for Sister Wulfrun's soul.

—

"You brought back _women?_ " The Earl casts a scornful eye over Athelwynne and the other sisters, ropes dangling around their necks. Athelwynne stares steadily at her toes, bare on the dirt floor of the crowded hall.

"We can sell them as slaves," says Ragnar Lothbrok. Athelwynne does not have to see him to know he's barely holding back a grin in front of his leader, despite the low, uneasy buzzing of the people in the hall. Sigeburh and Eadgyth are trembling on either side of her, and she wants so much to take their hands and tell them it'll all be all right, that it's only a dream and soon it will be time to wake up and say Lauds. Instead she makes sure the gospel is still hidden and secure. _Coward,_ she thinks to herself. _You are a coward._

She lets the discussion of what's to be done with the spoils of her home wash over her, and repeats the _sub tuum praesidium_ in her mind until she feels a jerk on the rope around her neck.

"I will take the priestess. We can use a slave at home."

Athelwynne looks at Ragnar Lothbrok, who holds her rope in his hand carelessly. The Earl looks displeased, but says, "Granted," and waves the people out of the hall.

Ragnar Lothbrok tugs on the rope again. "Come." Athelwynne has no choice but to catch a last glimpse of her sisters as she stumbles after the Northman.

The walk from the town to Ragnar Lothbrok's home is long, and made longer by the items he weighs Athelwynne down with. Bedroll, axe, cloak, shield; she strains to bear up under the load and still keep pace with the man, who is far taller than her and has much longer legs. Soon he is forced to slow, and Athelwynne sighs in relief. She is almost out of breath, but yet has a little bit to spare.

"I am not a priestess."

He turns around. "What?"

"I am not a priestess." Athelwynne hitches the bedroll more securely over her shoulder and almost drops the axe, frowning.

Ragnar Lothbrok rolls his eyes and relieves her of the axe. "You are a woman who lives in service of your god, yes?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then you are a priestess." Ragnar turns and keeps walking, obviously considering the matter done with.

Athelwynne scrambles to keep up. "I am not. I am a _nunne._ "

"A what?" Ragnar doesn't stop.

Athelwynne racks her brain for a suitable translation. "A _sweostor_ — a sister, I mean. I've taken vows, and my life is dedicated to serving God, but women can't lead our ceremonies. Only men can be priests."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"That's the way it is."

Ragnar grunts, and Athelwynne can't tell if it's agreement, or displeasure, or simple acknowledgement. She supposes it doesn't matter.

They arrive at Ragnar's home, and his children, Bjorn and Gyda, tug at Athelwynne's rough tunic and laugh at her shorn hair. Ragnar's wife, Lagertha, looks not at all pleased at her husband bringing home a woman. She reminds Athelwynne of the story of Boudicca, the heathen queen who fought the Romans hundreds of years ago in East Anglia. Lagertha is terrifying, and Athelwynne vows to stay out of her way as much as possible.

Athelwynne fetches water, feeds the goats, and chops some firewood, though obviously not as much as Lagertha had expected her to. Bjorn scoffs at the little pile she's made, grabs the small axe from her hand, and sends her into the forest to gather kindling instead.

The evening meal is awkward. When the children are not asking questions of her ("What are you wearing? Why is your hair cut short? What is that cross thing you wear around your neck? How do you know our language?"), she sits in uncomfortable silence while Ragnar tells his family of his exploits in the West, how they killed the holy women and brought all the treasures of the temple back across the sea. Athelwynne has not eaten half of the savory stew put in front of her despite her hunger, but she feels she will empty her stomach there on the floor if she eats more.

"Priestess, you are quiet as a mouse," Lagertha says, pouring more of the small beer for Bjorn and Gyda. "Have you nothing to add?"

What could Athelwynne say? That she had seen her sisters die upon the swords and axes of Lagertha's friends and neighbors? That she had never been so afraid for her life until that moment, and all the moments afterward? That she knew she would never see the shores of Northumbria again?

Ragnar spoke before Athelwynne could respond. "Don't call her priestess, love, she isn't one. I don't understand it, but she was very clear about it on the road today." Ragnar waggles his eyebrows, and makes a mock solemn face. The children giggle, and Athelwynne's face reddens like an apple.

"Then what shall we call you?" Lagertha asks, not unkindly.

At least this can be answered. "My name is Athelwynne."

After the family has gone to bed, Athelwynne sits awake in the corner she's been given to sleep in. Gyda had thoughtfully put a fur wrap there, and she certainly isn't too cold. She just wants some time to settle down, to catch her breath after having an entirely new world thrown at her. It's too late for Compline and too early for Matins, so she picks up the Gospel of St. John and opens it to the beginning. She can still make out the words in the light of the dying fire.

_in principio erat verbum et verbum erat apud deum et deus erat verbum_

Her fingertips trace the letters, and she whispers the words without reading them. There's no need; Athelwynne has known these verses by heart for years.

A rhythmic creaking noise catches her attention, and the accompanying low moans make her look up. Athelwynne gasps and her eyes widen, and she bends over the book almost double when she realizes what's happening. Ragnar and Lagertha are... behaving as married men and women do, Athelwynne supposes. But isn't that sort of thing meant to be private? She hopes the children are asleep.

_omnia per ipsum facta sunt et sine ipso factum est nihil quod factum est_

"Athelwynne!"

Athelwynne risks a peek over the top of the book at the whisper, and immediately wishes she hadn't. Lagertha, a blanket barely clinging to her, and Ragnar, baring his shame to the world, stand before her. Both of them grin at some private joke. "We have something we would ask you."

Athelwynne does not answer, but keeps her eyes averted. It's more skin than she's seen in all her days.

Lagertha holds out her hand. "Join us, little mouse."

Athelwynne chokes and almost loses her grip on the book. "I — no, I cannot. I've taken vows, I must remain a virgin."

Ragnar and Lagertha give each other that wolfish grin Athelwynne last saw on the boat. "Are you sure?" Ragnar asks. "Who would know?"

"God would know," Athelwynne says, eyes fixed on the illuminated letter I at the top of the page. The eagle's wings curl around St. John's head, a halo to his halo. "He sees everything."

Lagertha pets Ragnar's chest with the hand that isn't holding up her blanket. "You could pretend he's looking the other way." She smiles a lazy, catlike smile. Ragnar may be a wolf, Athelwynne thinks, but Lagertha is a lion.

"I cannot," Athelwynne repeats, and traces lightly over the next verse with trembling fingers. She remembers Sister Leofwen carefully inking the letters onto the vellum, glowing with happiness that she had been chosen to copy these words. Of course, she'd received three _Ave Marias_ for the sin of pride. A week ago, Sister Leofwen had been alive.

"If she is unwilling, then we must leave her be, I suppose," Ragnar grumbles, but Athelwynne can hear the laughter in his voice. He and Lagertha return to their bed, and Athelwynne sighs in relief.

_et lux in tenebris lucet et tenebrae eam non conprehenderunt_

—

Athelwynne is unsure how she will meet anyone's eyes in the morning, but when she rises, she finds she is the first one up. She brings water from the well and builds up the fire again, because she at least knows how to do that. She is walking around the loom, studying and admiring it, when Lagertha surprises her.

"Do you know how to weave?"

"Er — yes; your loom is a little different from the ones I know, but I see how this one works." Athelwynne glides a hand over the work in progress. "It's very fine."

Lagertha huffs a laugh. "It is not, it is Gyda's first work. You shall work with us."

"Yes, of course."

"What else can you do?" Lagertha drops her tiny smile and puts her hands on her hips.

"I can..." Athelwynne's mind has chosen this moment to forget every skill she ever knew. "I can weave, and spin, and knit and sew, and I can tend a garden and animals, and brew beer, and I can read and write in a few languages, and, er, I can sing."

"Well," says Lagertha, "there is much you must still learn." Bjorn, just risen from his sleep, laughs at Athelwynne's disappointment. "Come, it's time for breakfast. Athelwynne, go gather some eggs."

Athelwynne does as she is bid.

—

Her head is swimming, everything is tipping around her, she is so, so warm, and she can't really feel her fingers and toes, and her face is numb too. She has no idea how she's holding onto the cup, which Ragnar is filling with ale even though it isn't empty. And she isn't thirsty. She doesn't want any more, and she shakes her head, no, no, but Ragnar pours despite her protests.

"We don't let those in our house go thirsty. Or hungry." He smiles at her, which is different than his wolf grin. It seems nicer on his face. Athelwynne looks at her cup, and drinks.

"I am very curious about England." Ragnar looks Athelwynne right in her eyes. He spins and spins, and she wants to lie down. "Does it have one king, who rules over the whole country?"

Athelwynne giggles. What a silly question. England is much too large to be one entire kingdom! One would have to be very strong and have thousands of loyal men to rule from the sea in the east to the sea in the west, from the mountains in the north to the narrow channel in the south, to keep the Welsh and the Scots in line. "No, there are four kingdoms," she explains. "And four kings. You landed in the kingdom of Northumbria." She finds it hard to make her mouth form the words.

"And who rules there?" Ragnar asks, sipping from his cup.

"The king of Northumbria is called Ælla. He is a great king. A powerful king." Athelwynne remembers no other king of her land as long as she has been alive.

"Then why did his men not protect your temple?"

Athelwynne wants to protest the word. She did not grow up in a heathen temple, thank you! She lived in an abbey with her sisters and Mother Cuthburh. But she knows the distinction would be lost on Ragnar, and she doesn't know enough Norse to correct him. "Before you came, we had no need to protect our _abbodrice._ " She uses the English word anyway, hoping Ragnar will understand through context. "We lived in peace. Everyone respected it as a place of God."

Ragnar refills her cup right up to the brim. The surface of the ale flickers and shines in the firelight, and Athelwynne thinks she'd better drink some before it spills.

"Why does your god need silver and gold?" Ragnar asks. "Hm? He must be greedy. Like Loki." Ragnar laughs. Athenwynne thinks the ale must be affecting him as well. "We have greedy gods too."

"My God is not greedy," she says. "His kingdom is not of this world." Athelwynne smiles a tiny smile, thinking of the reward she will eventually go to.

"Then why is his kingdom so full of treasure?" Ragnar's voice dips low.

Athelwynne shakes her head, almost upsetting her cup. "Christian people give away their riches to the churches and — and temples in order to save their souls."

Ragnar looks at her sharply. "What are their souls?"

Athelwynne is shocked into silence. They do not have souls here in the north? Athelwynne had always been taught that everyone had a soul, and that it must be saved. These Northmen did not know God; perhaps they had no souls at all. How does Athelwynne explain the soul? The Holy Spirit? Is she surrounded by demons? Is she in Hell?

Ragnar interrupts her thoughts. "I want to learn some of your language. Will you teach me, little mouse?" He clanks his cup against hers, making her jump. She drinks because he does, and she feels, inexplicably and suddenly, very sad.

—

She sees the limp bodies of her sisters swaying gently in the night breeze like damp laundry, and she drops her bundles and falls to her knees. Ragnar jerks roughly on the rope, but Athelwynne cannot move. Is this what she can expect? A short, miserable life and a violent, prolonged death at the end of a rope? She's already got one around her neck. Convenient, she thinks.

How could she have been so incredibly stupid? In the Earl's house, she had begged God to let Ragnar be disbelieved, to make the Earl deny him the journey. But God was not listening then, and had evidently not listened to the prayers of Eadgyth and Sigeburh. They are dead, and Athelwynne, though she knows it is a sin, wishes herself dead too.

 _It is all part of God's great plan,_ she tells herself. _We are but tiny parts of His kingdom, and it is not up to us to know how we fit in. He knows, and that is enough._

For the first time in her life, the thought is not comforting.

Ragnar pulls a knife from his belt, and strides up to her. He forces her to look up at him. Maybe, Athelwynne thinks, she will get her wish. Ragnar will slice her throat open, and she will go to heaven.

The rope slithers to the ground. "Run away if you want," Ragnar says, and takes one of the bundles from her. Athelwynne remains on her knees, breathless and utterly confused.

—

The days quickly pile up, one right on top of another, and Athelwynne learns tasks as fast as she can comprehend them. Lagertha is not wholly unimpressed with Athelwynne's skill at the loom, but since Gyda is learning, she sets Athelwynne to spinning yarn and knitting new tunics and mittens for the winter. "You will be glad of them once the snow comes," she says, and Athelwynne believes her.

She is no longer allowed to fast, and finds herself getting enough to eat for the first time in her life. Her body fills out and her arms and legs grow stronger without her noticing. Soon it is nothing to chop enough wood for a few days, and then help Ragnar and Bjorn in the fields. She grows calluses on her palms, which rub together and distract her when she prays before bed. Athelwynne grows almost comfortable in her new life in this strange land. She even has some time to herself to explore the forest and listen to her voice echo against the trees.

A morning comes when Athelwynne wakes, stretches, pulls on the old woolen leggings Lagertha has given her under her thin shift. She fills the water buckets at the well, and then walks down to the river to wash her face. She rolls the leggings up around her knees, and wades in. The water is cold enough to bite her pale skin, and the pebbles on the bottom press painfully into the soles of her feet. It's almost like penance. She whispers a quick _Ave Maria,_ savoring the sensations.

She bends down to splash her face. Without thinking, she pushes the dark, dripping curls out of her face, and freezes.

Her hair. _Oh no, no, please, no..._

Athelwynne scrambles out of the water toward the house, almost forgets the buckets, runs back to pick them up, and catches a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the water in one of them. Her hair is almost down to her jaw, and wildly curly. She has not seen it like this since she took her vows.

She picks up the buckets and forces herself to walk calmly back to the house, where she sets the water by the hearth without spilling a drop. A utility knife lies on the bench by the loom, and Athelwynne grabs it. She ducks behind the partition and kneels down on her sleeping fur. She grabs a handful of the damp hair flopping into her eyes, and sets the knife's sharp edge to it.

"Stop."

Athelwynne's hand jerks at the voice, and the knife takes off a few strands of hair.

"I think I told you to stop." Ragnar crouches next to Athelwynne and plucks the knife from her fingers. "Why do you do this?"

Athelwynne knows why. It's just one more way she is neglecting God, ignoring her solemn vows, turning away from her old life. But if she tries to explain it to Ragnar, he will only belittle and mock her for vainly attempting to cling to meaningless familiarity. She doesn't care. She explains anyway. She tells him of mendicant nuns, of forsaking all worldly possessions, of short hair being a symbol of a life spent in poverty, devoted to God.

Ragnar doesn't laugh. Instead, he takes her hand and pulls her to standing, and leads her to the barn. He picks up the sheep shearers, and snips Athelwynne's hair away until only short curls remain, springing away from her scalp. She runs a hand over her head and looks at her hair amongst the straw on the ground.

"This will not happen again." Ragnar tilts her chin up with a crooked finger, looking her in the eyes. "Understand?"

"Yes."

—

That time of year, the daylight lasts long after the evening meal, so Gyda sits herself at the loom and Athelwynne picks up the pair of socks she's been knitting while Bjorn stays by the fire, whittling and ignoring the other two. He still chafes at his father having put Athelwynne in charge while he and Lagertha are away, but Gyda doesn't seem to mind, so Athelwynne is determined not to let it trouble her.

"What are your parents' names?"

Athelwynne looks up from her knitting. "Wulfstan and Sæflæd. They died a long time ago."

"Oh," says Gyda. "I thought maybe your ancestors protect you like ours protect us." She passes the shuttle back and forth across her weaving, thinking. "Then who's Mary?"

"How do you know that name?" Athelwynne tries to cover her surprise by switching yarn colors on the socks she's making.

"I hear you sometimes. It sounds like you're praying, and I thought Mary might be an ancestor's name."

"Christians don't pray to their ancestors. Mary is the mother of Jesus and the Queen of Heaven."

"Oh, so she's a goddess." Gyda's eyebrows draw together. "I thought you only had one god."

"Mary isn't a goddess, she was human. God visited her and planted His Son in her."

"Like Freyr," Gyda says, understanding. Bjorn snorts.

"No — oh dear," Athelwynne mutters. "Would you like to hear a new story, Gyda?"

"About Mary?"

"Yes, about Mary." And Athelwynne tells Gyda of how the angel Gabriel told Mary she had been chosen to bear the Son of God, though she was a virgin. Bjorn laughs aloud, and Athelwynne frowns.

"That doesn't make sense," says Gyda. "You can't be a virgin and bear children." So Athelwynne does her best to explain how Mary never knew a man, and how it was the Holy Spirit that conceived Jesus Christ. Gyda still looks skeptical when she finishes. "So it was magic, then."

"It was a miracle," Athelwynne says, giving up for now. "Why don't you tell me a story? I hardly know any of yours."

Gyda jumps at the chance, and she's off, telling Athelwynne how Odin hung himself from Yggdrasil and sacrificed himself to himself with a spear dedicated to Odin.

"How can a god sacrifice himself to himself?" Athelwynne asks, confused.

"How can your god be three gods but also one god?" Gyda shoots back. Athelwynne subsides, and Gyda continues, moving on to how Loki kidnapped Idunn out of Asgard and all the gods grew old and feeble without her youthful presence.

They swap stories until Athelwynne has finished the socks and Gyda has attempted to at least hide all the errors she'd made in her weaving while she was talking.

—

Lagertha leads them through the forest, Gyda under her arm. Bjorn runs as swiftly as his mother, and Athelwynne can barely keep up, the leather bag holding her precious book banging against her leg and the axe in her hand, unbloodied yet weighing her down. All around her the woods echo with screams of pain and cries for help and mercy.

Just the other night at the party, Ragnar had called her a good Christian, and she had smiled.

They crawl into the boat, and Athelwynne shoves them off the from shore, expecting an arrow between her shoulders every moment. The Blessed Virgin must be watching over them, Athelwynne thinks, as she curls up under the sides of the boat. They drift down the river, and she prays that they are not sitting too low in the water, that they look like nothing more than an empty boat set adrift during the attack.

If she really were a good Christian she would have been able to help more people, she would not have crawled down under the house before both the children were safely through, she would have died in place of—

_Blessed Mary, protect Ragnar, if he is yet alive. Please let him still live._

But Athelwynne knows she is not a good Christian. The best, kindest, gentlest, most humble Christian she ever knew, Mother Cuthburh, died in the raid on Lindisfarne all those months ago. Athelwynne peeks over the side of the boat and watches the Earl's thugs slaughter the livestock, watches flames swallow the farmhouse, and mourns again.

—

Ragnar plunges into the freezing river after falling God knows how far from the top of a cliff, and Athelwynne doesn't think twice, but breathes deep.

She has always lived by the sea.

She dives straight into the cold water, and opens her eyes. Ragnar's body is limp and trailing blood into the water, and sinking fast. Athelwynne swims as hard as she can, and when she catches up to Ragnar, she wraps one arm around his chest — by St. Jude, he is enormous! — and kicks and kicks and kicks. Her lungs burn and she wants so much to inhale, and then they break the surface. Athelwynne gasps and hauls Ragnar to the boat. "He's not breathing!" They drag him aboard first, and then her.

As Lagertha pounds on Ragnar's chest, Bjorn looks almost gratefully at Athelwynne. "That was brave." She says nothing, but ducks her head shakily in acknowledgement. She is very cold.

Lagertha thrusts an oar into Athelwynne's hands. "Find more strength; we are not finished yet."

"Where can we go?" Gyda asks, tucking her cloak around her father's shoulders.

"Floki's."

—

"Please, will you teach me?" Athelwynne asks. Lagertha raises an eyebrow, Gyda grins, and Bjorn snorts. Athelwynne simply stands there in the falling snow, unaffected and unsurprised by any of their reactions. "Please. I want to learn to defend myself. And the family." Bjorn's face goes from sneering to stormy, and he runs back inside, presumably to complain to Ragnar.

When the Earl's men had attacked the farm and Lagertha had thrust the small axe into her hand, Athelwynne had nearly dropped it in shock. Harming another person went against everything she believed, and Lagertha expected her to use it. Luckily she hadn't been forced to.

"I will teach her!" Gyda says, but Lagertha shushes her.

"You don't know enough yet, and you are too small. I will teach her." Lagertha takes the shield from Gyda and tosses it to Athelwynne. "Hold it up, defend yourself." Athelwynne stumbles back as Lagertha crashes her shield against Athelwynne's. "Come, hit me. The shield is not only for defense, it is also a weapon."

Athelwynne attempts to catch the edge of her shield on Lagertha's arm, but Lagertha dodges and spins, and slams her shield into Athelwynne's back, sending her face first into the freezing dirt with a grunt. Athelwynne rolls onto her back, breathing hard. Lagertha stands above her, holding her hand out. Athelwynne takes it and is yanked to her feet, shield heavy on her arm. "That is well done. For a first try," Lagertha says. "And you did not drop your shield. Good." Athelwynne blushes at the praise.

Bjorn shuffles outside again. "Father says he wants to see Athelwynne fight," he mutters.

Gyda cheers, and Lagertha pats Athelwynne on the arm. "We will have to make you a shield," she says. "You cannot always be borrowing Gyda's."

—

Ragnar's wound is open, angry red, and so hot and painful that he practically squirms on the cot. "What have you done, husband?" Even Athelwynne can tell that Lagertha says 'husband,' but means 'idiot.'

"I needed a piss," Ragnar mumbles, grimacing. Athelwynne is glad the children are outside; she can just imagine Bjorn saying 'piss' from now until doomsday.

"And you couldn't get Floki to help you?"

"Everyone was asleep. I thought I was healing." Ragnar tries to smile charmingly up at his wife, but his face twists up in pain and he moans through gritted teeth.

"It's diseased," says Athelwynne. All eyes in the room turn to her, and she bites the inside of her cheek. "The sisters at Lindisfarne taught us healing."

"Of course it's diseased," Lagertha says impatiently. "Can you do anything for him?"

"It's bad, but I think so." Athelwynne turns to Helga, whose black rimmed eyes never fail to unsettle her. "I need comfrey, garlic, and lavender, do you have those?"

"Lavender is for washing, and garlic is for food." Helga raises an eyebrow at Athelwynne. "And comfrey is poisonous, do you want to kill him?"

Athelwynne's grip on her temper frays just a little. "It isn't harmful if you use only a small amount. I do not want to kill him, I'm trying to keep him alive! Now do you have what I need or not?" She may be just a foreign slave, but she isn't stupid.

Helga nods and goes to fetch the supplies while Floki laughs and turns to Lagertha. "The little priestess has teeth. I never would have thought it."

Lagertha says something in response, but Athelwynne ignores them in favor of the herbs Helga has assembled. Athelwynne crushes the comfrey into a fine powder and mixes it with a little water to make a paste, and then adds the garlic and lavender. "It smells," Helga says.

"Ragnar will smell worse if he dies," Athelwynne says testily. Helga grins and gets out of Athelwynne's way as she brings the mixture over to Ragnar. "I'll need someone to hold him down."

"Hello, little mouse." Ragnar's eyes cannot quite focus on Athelwynne through the pain. "Are you here to kill me with your Christian teaching?"

"I think you'll find I'm going to heal you," Athelwynne says. She nods at Floki and Lagertha to hold him. "Be quiet, and bite on something. This will hurt." No sooner does Lagertha jam a leather strap between Ragnar's teeth but Athelwynne smears the reeking paste over his wound. Ragnar yells against the strap and struggles against Lagertha and Floki. Athelwynne covers more of the red, inflamed area with the paste, and Ragnar passes out from the pain. Once he's unconscious, she coats the entire area and covers it with a clean cloth. She looks up at Lagertha. "We must check on it often, and make sure it stays clean and that he doesn't injure himself further." She purses her lips at her badly behaved patient, and has no idea why Lagertha and Helga join in Floki's laughter.

—

Lagertha and the children stand at the inner edge of the circle as Ragnar and Haraldson battle each other. Athelwynne was left on the very edge of the crowd and can't see a thing, while Floki, standing next to her, is so ridiculously tall that he has an excellent view. He notices Athelwynne straining to see, and chuckles. "Haraldson has thrown his shield aside. Now Ragnar has as well." He regards the two men fighting. "Ragnar is tiring. His wounds are bothering him, that is easy to see. But Haraldson has not gone raiding in a long time. He is out of practice."

Athelwynne leaves off her attempts to peer through the crowd. "Will Ragnar win?"

"He may. He may not. Ragnar is determined, but injured. Haraldson is old, but experienced."

"What happens if he loses?"

"Haraldson kills him." Floki snorts. "That's what a fight to the death _means._ "

"What of Lagertha and the children?"

"They must give themselves up to Haraldson's mercy."

"He has none," she mutters.

"I know," Floki answers. "He will likely kill them as well."

Athelwynne doesn't want to know, but can't not ask. "And me?"

"You, little priestess?" Floki giggles. "You will be the next to die after Ragnar. Haraldson will make everyone watch as he cuts your pretty little throat open." He turns from the fight to pin her with his black-rimmed eyes. "Pray to your god that Ragnar wins."

And suddenly, Siggy screams. Athelwynne lifts up onto her tiptoes, unable to see over these giants of Northmen's shoulders. Floki hitches her up onto a fence, and Haraldson is on the ground, Ragnar kneeling over him. The old earl lies still, bleeding out into the dirt. A crow cackles from a rooftop somewhere. His eyes dim.

Siggy wrenches herself upright, and stands tall over her husband. "Hail, Earl Ragnar!" The crowd shouts it back, everyone down on one knee. Athelwynne shouts too, and it's a cathartic relief after the horrible dread of the last few hours. Floki doesn't shout, he just laughs as though he's the only one who's in on the joke.

—

"I never thanked you, little mouse." Ragnar stands close to Athelwynne, pushing a cup of ale into her hands. They lurk in the shadow of a wooden ceiling support while the celebration swirls around them.

"For what?"

"You saved my life. I would be dead if you hadn't pulled me from the river. Or healed my wounds." His blue eyes bore into hers.

Words desert her, and she can only shake her head. "No," she says finally, "surely you would have lived."

"How?"

Athelwynne has no answer for that.

Ragnar takes her free hand in both of his huge ones. "What would you have of me? Ask it, and if it is within my power to give, you shall have it."

She freezes with her hand still trapped between Ragnar's. What could she possibly ask from him? It is an impossible question. She cannot ask to be returned home, for she has no home to go to. She has no use for the treasure Ragnar has taken from her homeland. She cannot ask to be freed — can she?

Athelwynne looks into his eyes. They are so blue, bluer than a cloudless sky, bluer than a calm sea. He may have had more than a few cups of ale, but she sees he is sincere. He would grant her anything.

Leif drunkenly slams into Ragnar from behind, and the chain reaction makes Athelwynne's ale slosh over the rim of her cup and all over Ragnar. There is a pause in which Athelwynne doesn't move a muscle. Then both Leif and Ragnar roar with laughter. The moment is lost, but Athelwynne cannot allow herself to regret it. "Come, my lord, what I wish is for you to sit down before you split your wounds." She guides Ragnar to his earl's chair next to Lagertha (who watches with impenetrable eyes) and pretends she does not notice the disappointment on his face.

—

Lagertha drops her spindle to the floor and gives a great howl of pain. She nearly collapses, but Athelwynne catches her and holds her up. "My lady, what—"

"The child, it—" Lagertha yells again, and Siggy rushes into the room. She sizes up the situation in moments and pulls Lagertha away from Athelwynne.

"Help me get her on the bed," says Siggy. They wrestle Lagertha onto the soft blankets, and prop her up onto the pile of pillows behind her. "Now get out, and send Thyri. She won't be useless."

Athelwynne does as she is told, helps fetch and carry hot water and warm blankets, and then is shut out of the bedchamber. Despite living with women her whole life, she knows nothing of childbirthing. Well, almost nothing. She knows that it is far too soon for Lagertha to be suffering the pains. She kneels against the wall by the door, and prays harder than she has since coming to this land. She prays for the safe delivery of a healthy child, but knows that is unlikely, so focuses most of her concentration on Lagertha's life. _Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui... Please, Mother Mary, intercede and spare Lagertha's life. Please._

A long time later, the door opens and a serving girl sets down a dish full of… Athelwynne knows not what it is, but the sight is horrific. Red and blood and flesh. She gets to her feet, looks in the doorway, and meets Thyri's eyes across the bedchamber. Thyri shakes her head subtly, and Athelwynne's eyes fly to the bed in terror. _The child is dead, if she is too…_

Lagertha sprawls in a puddle of blood, sweaty and wide-eyed and as near to tears as Athelwynne has ever seen her. A serving girl mops up the blood on the bed between Lagertha's legs, and another waits with clean bedding. Siggy holds Lagertha's hand and murmurs soothingly to her, but Lagertha doesn't seem to hear. Athelwynne sinks to the floor, shocked yet relieved.

The servants change the bedding without upsetting Lagertha much, and she waves them out. "All of you, leave." Athelwynne gets up from her spot on the floor. "Not you." Lagertha points a regal, if exhausted, hand at Athelwynne. "You stay, little mouse. The rest of you, out." Siggy's eyebrows turn down as she and Thyri herd the serving girls out of the room, as if she wonders why a foreign slave is allowed to stay and she and her daughter must leave.

The door shuts behind them, but Lagertha takes no notice. "Sing to me," she says. "Please." She lets her eyes close and sinks into the pillows.

Athelwynne perches on the edge of the bed, and starts a song Gyda taught her, a song for spinning and sewing.

"No, something I don't know, something from your land. Sing about your god for all I care."

Athelwynne begins a song, not about God or His Son, but a song she has known since she was very young, a song about the wild ocean and sun on the water, a song about Northumbria and its beauty and danger.

The song is not short, and Athelwynne takes a deep breath when she finishes. It is a comfort to use her own language again after speaking Norse for so long. She blinks back to the dim bedchamber, and the exhausted woman before her.

"Thank you, little mouse. That was lovely. Now come lie here with me." Athelwynne cannot but obey: Lagertha, worn and soiled as she is, is no less a queen to Athelwynne, and she wants nothing more than to serve her as she did Mother Cuthburh. Lagertha wriggles into Athelwynne's arms, and Athelwynne shifts so she can stroke Lagertha's sweaty hair. Lagertha sighs, but does not relax.

"You must sleep, my lady, please try."

Lagertha speaks as though she hasn't heard Athelwynne at all. "Ragnar will take another woman."

"He is your husband, he cannot! ...can he?"

"He would be fully within his rights. I cannot give him the sons he is fated to have. I have failed him."

Athelwynne is speechless. She cannot envision a life in which Lagertha would fail at anything.

She pulls a woollen blanket more securely around Lagertha's shoulders. "Think not on it now, my lady. Please try to sleep."

"I will if you will," says Lagertha, fighting through a yawn that belies her words. Athelwynne, despite her lady's wishes, stays awake for a long time.

—

Ragnar comes home flushed with victory and treasure, and he and his men burst into the hall loud and laughing. Lagertha and the children are there to greet him, Athelwynne standing off to one side. Lagertha does nothing to hide her no longer swollen belly. Ragnar runs to her, kisses his children, and sweeps his wife into his arms. "Where is the babe?" He glances at Athelwynne, likely expecting her to be minding an infant. "I wish to meet my new son! I did not expect him to arrive so soon."

Lagertha's face is impassive, and he sets her down. "Lagertha?" Gyda and Bjorn sidle over to stand near Athelwynne, giving their parents space.

"I lost the child."

Ragnar steps back, eyes wide, looking more confused than anything else. "What?" He looks around the hall again, apparently desperate to hear a squalling child hidden beyond a door or around a corner.

Lagertha takes a step toward her husband, holding a hand out to him. "Ragnar…"

But he pulls away further, jerking his hand away from hers. His face darkens, and he looks as though he might actually strike her. Though Athelwynne's mind does not even think it, she moves to place herself between husband and wife. The only thing that stops her is Gyda's small hand clutching at her own.

"Mother can defend herself," Gyda murmurs.

"I know," Athelwynne whispers. As if Lagertha would ever need protection from anyone, even from Odin himself. Ragnar would only sweep Athelwynne aside like clouds across the sky before a gale, but Lagertha can withstand the howling wind, bending without breaking like a tall fir tree.

Athelwynne wonders what Lagertha's snapping point is.

—

"Little mouse, come here." Ragnar sits in his earl's chair, playing with a golden trinket from the last raid. He tosses it aside as she approaches. The hall is mostly empty, just a couple servants at the opposite end clearing up after dinner. "You were with Lagertha when she lost the child."

"Yes, my lord."

"It was awful, yes?"

"It was."

"There was no way to save my — the babe?"

"No, my lord. It was too soon for the birth."

" _You_ could have done nothing to prevent it? You, with your healing knowedge?" His eyes catch the light in the hall, a flash of unsettling blue fire.

"Nothing, my lord. I know little about childbirth."

Ragnar nods. He rises from the chair and walks around Athelwynne once, slowly. He stops in front of her, looks her body up and down, and seizes her wrist in his huge hand. She twists in his grip instinctively, but he is far stronger. "You are not entirely unfortunate looking. Why have I never thought to get a son on you?"

Athelwynne is struck speechless, but only for a moment. She thanks God she finds her tongue quickly enough. "You once said you do not — take the unwilling."

Ragnar lifts an eyebrow. "That's true." He rubs his thumb against the skin of her inner wrist thoughtfully, almost gently. "I could make you willing."

She can hear the blood rush in her ears, and feel her pulse thump in her throat. Her chest rises and falls with her quickened breath, and Ragnar's eyes linger.

"I am not willing."

And like a candle pinched out, Ragnar drops her wrist and turns away from her. "Virgins are no fun anyway. All they do is scream and cry." He waves her away and flops boneless back into his earl's chair.

Athelwynne's feet, without any direction from her brain, carry her through the kitchen and out behind the stables. She sits down on an upturned bucket and watches her hands shake like leaves in a breeze.

—

On the journey back from Uppsala, a journey she was never meant to make, Athelwynne speaks to almost no one. Only Thyri, with her kindness and good heart, still tries to get Athelwynne to talk, and ignores Siggy to bring her food and keep her company when they camp. But the others keep their distance, whether out of anger like Torstein, or confusion like Arne, or consideration like Floki. Ragnar appears supremely unconcerned at the others' behavior, and play-fights with Bjorn and drinks with the men like nothing out of the ordinary has happened, yet still ignores Athelwynne.

She no longer understands Ragnar, if she ever did at all. She tries to think it through logically. He wanted to sacrifice her to Odin, meaning she was valuable to him. These Norsemen only sacrifice that which holds value to them, hoping to please their gods. But Ragnar was willing to let her die. Did that mean she has outlived her usefulness? Not to mention the only thing that had saved her was her cross. Had the priest not seen it between her fingers, she would most likely be dead. But on the other hand, maybe not. It seemed the human sacrifices had all been willing and honored to have been chosen. She can't imagine lying herself down on that table of her own free will, covering herself with the blood of animals and men alike. Athelwynne feels willful, defiant, headstrong, and mostly angry. Ragnar had not even _asked_ her.

The little metal cross stays on her wrist, the leather thong too worn and broken to fit around her neck anymore. Athelwynne no longer thinks of Jesus and His sacrifice when she looks at it; she is only reminded of her own sins and shortcomings. She knows getting rid of it would help her feel less resentful and guilty, and probably help the others forgive her as well.

She keeps it, because she does not deserve forgiveness.

—

She is in Hell. Fire rages around her, inside her, and demons dance and wail all about her. This is where she was always fated to go, Athelwynne knows. She is a wicked sinner, like all men, and Hell was always her destination, no matter her good deeds in life. She knows it will do her no good, but she can't help a wretched sob as the hand of a demon grasps the back of her neck and pulls her forward.

"Athelwynne. My little mouse. Awake."

Who here would call her 'little mouse'? Only her family would call her that, and if they are here, they must be dead as well. Athelwynne lets the tears flow freely. Heathens though they were, she never would have wished Hell on them.

A hard something bumps against her mouth. "Drink, little one."

Her eyes flutter open, and Gyda's face hovers above hers. Though it is not Gyda's, and it is. She seems older, more of a woman than the last time Athelwynne saw her. Strange, she thinks.

Gyda-Not-Gyda pushes the hard something against Athelwynne's lips again. "You must drink. I will not lose you to this as well." Cold water sloshes onto Athelwynne's face, and she opens her mouth reflexively. It slips down her throat, making her cough, but then soothing the heat, the burning.

She is not in Hell. She is in the hall, and it isn't Gyda, it is Lagertha tending to her. The voices are not devils, but the other sick people surrounding her. It is a relief, and it is a terror.

—

Everything feels filthy and sticky and overly hot. Athelwynne's eyes blink open, though she only wants to sleep forever. She feels as though she could drink an entire river. Lagertha is there, brushing Athelwynne's sweaty curls away from her face. She holds a cup of water in her other hand, and tries to smile.

Athelwynne knows that look, but it's unfamiliar on Lagertha's face. She knows it from Mother Cuthburh, trying to comfort when she informed Athelwynne that her parents and siblings were dead of sickness. "What? What's wrong?"

"Drink first."

Athelwynne can't argue, and downs the cup of warm water in a few swallows. "My lady?"

"You should rest, you are not yet well." Lagertha's eyes dart to one side, and Athelwynne follows them. Gyda lies at Athelwynne's side, pale as death.

"No—" Athelwynne scrambles to sit up, eyes wild. "No, she cannot be—"

"She's not dead, but she's so near…" A tear escapes Lagertha's eyes and she brushes it away. "Some people, like you, are recovering, but most who fall ill die. We have prayed, and sacrificed to Odin, and tried all the medicines we know." She looks Athelwynne in the eye. "I don't know what to do."

"Help me up." Athelwynne grabs for Lagertha's hand, but is held down to the straw mat.

Lagertha speaks, but so softly that Athelwynne strains to hear over the cries and moans of the people around them. "You are not yet healthy. I will not lose you too."

Athelwynne wraps her hand around Lagertha's. "I can help. I want to."

"How?" Lagertha's face is impassive, but Athelwynne can hear the ragged sob in her voice.

"Remember I healed Ragnar. If you have the right herbs, I can make a fever brew."

Lagertha looks down at her daughter. Gyda lies horribly still, blanket drawn up to her chin, hands tucked underneath it. She turns back to Athelwynne. "What do you need?"

"Bark of the willow, elderberries if there are any, and _adreminte_  — oh, I don't know the Norse for it." Lagertha nods and gestures a servant to come and listen. "It's the leaves from a flower with white petals and a yellow center. It grows in full sunlight, to about knee height."

"I know the flower, my lady," the servant says. "How much do you need?"

"A lot," Athelwynne says, suddenly exhausted. "Also as much cold, clean water as you can carry." The servant nods and picks her way back through the dying and dead.

Lagertha pulls Athelwynne against her. "Rest for now. When they have gathered what you need, I will wake you." Athelwynne drifts, comforted and hopeful.

—

After the funeral pyres have gone out, Athelwynne slips outside while no one is watching and runs into the woods. Once she is out of earshot, she pounds her fists against the bark of an old juniper tree until her knuckles are bloody.

 _It's only death,_ Bjorn's voice echoes in her head. She wonders if he would say that if he were here now.

It isn't fair. After Uppsala, Thyri and Athelwynne had become a tentative sort of friends. How can God, or any god, take a young, innocent person away from life like that? She had been young and strong and so kind to Athelwynne after the confusion and resentment that followed Leif's sacrifice. It isn't fair, Athelwynne thinks. It is the immature cry of a child to a deaf and uncaring God.

Athelwynne slumps against the tree and lets herself drop to the cold earth. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her cloak around her. Her face is wet with tears when Lagertha finds her hours later.

Lagertha lowers herself to the ground next to Athelwynne and leans against her. "I wish you were not grieving alone."

Athelwynne shakes her head. "I cannot — I've never lost anyone like this." She pulls at the edges of her cloak, her bloodied fingers worrying the wool.

"It is the hardest thing, losing loved ones," says Lagertha. "It is the hardest thing, and it only gets harder."

Athelwynne has lost sisters to illness and age at Lindisfarne, and then the horror that was the raid. But she has never had a real friend before, someone who wasn't part of her family, be it blood kin or the sisterhood. She thinks how sweet it was, to have been able to choose friendship with another person, and to have it returned.

Feeling greatly daring, Athelwynne lets go of her cloak and takes Lagertha's hand in one of hers. She twists their fingers together so it is not completely comfortable, but solid and determined. Lagertha blinks, but doesn't pull away.

—

"Gyda!" Bjorn runs at his sister and scoops her up into a hug. To Athelwynne it looks as though he has grown an entire handspan in his absence. "We heard about the sickness on the journey home. You almost died!" He looks at her accusingly, but doesn't let her go.

"Be careful, Bjorn, she's not completely well," Lagertha says, still protective though Gyda's been up and about for days now.

Gyda hugs her brother back, pretending not to have heard her mother. "Yes, but Athelwynne saved me."

"She did?" Bjorn's face pinches into a familiar scowl.

Gyda just nods. "And she saved lots of other people too, while she was still ill. Most of us would be dead if not for her."

Bjorn stares at Athelwynne, but doesn't let go of his sister. The scowl fades, though he doesn't quite smile, and Athelwynne drops her eyes to the floor and tries to blend in with the walls. "I suppose you will have to tell me the story later."

Lagertha gives in and holds her children close to her in relief and gratitude. She kisses her son's cheek and Bjorn tries to wriggle away ("Mother! It's embarrassing!"), but Lagertha and Gyda refuse to let him go. Athelwynne smiles at the three of them. Out of habit, she whispers a quick prayer of thanks that both Lagertha's children are alive and well and safe in their mother's arms. Watching the three of them embrace, she thinks perhaps it was not through God's love and God's will that Gyda is alive. Perhaps it is because of her own love, and her own will.

She looks up at a ruckus coming from the end of the hall. Floki and the other men, delighted to be home, laugh and shout and send the servants running for food and ale. Athelwynne moves to join them and make herself useful when she spots Ragnar standing in the doorway, apart from his companions. She can only see his outline, but it is obviously him. She barely notices the thin woman standing next to him. Athelwynne is glad Ragnar is home. Perhaps now that he is finished running errands for King Horik, they will be a family again.

**Author's Note:**

> Anglo-Saxon England is one of my pet interests, but I've never had any classes on it so everything I know is self-taught. (Full disclosure: I'm perpetually angry with the Vikings for burning shit and setting progress back a few hundred years, and thus only know about their archaeology and history as it relates to the Anglo-Saxons.) Chunks of dialogue taken directly from the show. I've taken some great liberties with history here: obviously Lindisfarne was home only to monks, not nuns, and the Cult Of Mary didn't get huge in Europe until about the 11th century but I really wanted Athelwynne to depend on Mary as a compassionate intercessor, and many of the Latin prayers I've used or referenced are specifially prayers to Mary. As far as monastic life goes, there weren't many differences between monks and nuns, but nuns had to have a priest on hand to say Mass and things like that. Nuns were just as literate as their fellow monks, and did participate in creating texts and art. Also, _adreminte_ is the Anglo-Saxon for the herb _feverfew,_ or so the Old English translator has led me to believe.


End file.
